


White Elephant

by MizEmily



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison, Alpha Stiles, Anxiety Attacks, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03 AU, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, what do you mean the show didn't end after s3e19?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 05:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3476006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizEmily/pseuds/MizEmily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows going into the preserve alone is kind of stupid, okay? He knows. Even if he is armed with a 9-inch KA-BAR—ostensibly bought for herb gathering and field work, but seriously, how was Stiles supposed to resist a knife called the 'Zombro' (made especially for the zombie apocalypse, of course) with a neon green handle and serrated top?—he is still just 165 pounds of soft, vulnerable human flesh. That's right. 165 pounds. Stiles doesn't like to brag, but he's been working out. Okay, no, he loves to brag, but the fact remains that even the additional 15 pounds of muscle he's put on recently isn't going to deter, say, a desperate, hungry, wild animal. Like the skinny, mangy wolf staring him down from across the creek bed right now.</p><p>Or: Stiles really regrets moving back to Beacon Hills after college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Elephant

**Author's Note:**

> Post-3b/ep 19 AU, because a world in which there is no Allison Argent is not a world in which I want my version of these fictional characters to live. Tags will be added/rating will change as the story progresses. There shouldn't be anything that typically necessitates warnings, but please do let me know if I've forgotten to tag something important! 
> 
> Come say hello to/yell at/prompt me on [tumblr](http://miz-emily.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](http://twitter.com/mizemily)!

\--------

Stiles knows going into the preserve alone is kind of stupid, okay? _He knows._ Even if he is armed with a 9-inch KA-BAR—ostensibly bought for herb gathering and field work, but seriously, how was Stiles supposed to resist a knife called the 'Zombro' (made especially for the zombie apocalypse, of course) with a neon green handle and serrated top?—he is still just 165 pounds of soft, vulnerable human flesh. That's right. 165 pounds. Stiles doesn't like to brag, but he's been working out. Okay, no, he loves to brag, but the fact remains that even the additional 15 pounds of muscle he's put on recently isn't going to deter, say, a desperate, hungry, wild animal. Like the skinny, mangy wolf staring him down from across the creek bed right now.

Wolves are still relatively rare in California, but there's been a resurgence in the population over the last few years, thanks to the efforts of some very dedicated conservationists. Stiles has only seen one or two on the preserve. Most of them tend to skirt the area, he supposes, attempting to avoid another wolf's territory. Derek's territory. But not this one. This one looks like it's going to make a meal of Stiles' innards, or die trying. In fact, it looks like it probably _will_ die if it doesn't eat him. It's been a long, unusually cold winter; the pickings have obviously been slim for any predators that didn't hibernate or move farther south during the season. He can see the wolf's ribs and knobby joints protruding through its thin, grey fur. He feels one fleeting moment of pity before the thing pulls its lips back from a set of wickedly sharp teeth, flattens its ears to its head, and growls.

Just like that, any and all pity is replaced by a bone-deep terror. Stiles is at least a mile from his Jeep with a knife he’s only ever used for sawing through cellulose and a plastic grocery bag half full of ingredients for an anesthetic poultice to defend himself. He spares a thought for the baggie of mountain ash in his pocket, but dismisses it just as quickly. The snarling, slavering creature in front of him is 100% wolf, of the non-were variety.

The irony of wishing it were otherwise is not lost on Stiles.

“Whoa there, big guy,” he says, hands held out, palms displayed, trying to keep his voice even. He gives up the pretence of fearlessness when the wolf growls again, a thick stream of drool pouring from its open mouth. “Or girl, sorry. You could definitely be a lady wolf. I’m not getting close enough to check.”

There have only been a few moments in Stiles' life that he's really, truly regretted moving back to Beacon Hills after college. The first came on the heels of his housewarming party in the form of gremlins. Not cute, furry, Gizmo type Mogwai. Not even post-midnight snack Stripe gremlins. These were giant, naked mole rat looking gremlins, and they quite literally ate the faces off of several unfortunate residents of Beacon County. The second was the day he realized his dad's new girlfriend was not, in fact, a vivacious 42 year old divorcee with an incredibly high sex drive—the recounting of which is the third reason he regrets moving home. Sharon was a succubus with a particular taste for men in uniform, and it wasn't until Deaton had helped him banish her to whatever Hell she'd escaped that the color came back to his dad's face, and the light to his eyes.

And now he is staring down a feral, possibly rabid animal that obviously hasn't eaten in recent memory, and Stiles is regretting all the decisions that lead him here. Deaton had offered to keep him company today, but Stiles had waved him off. Derek had warned him about bear sightings in the area just last week, but did Stiles listen? Hell no. And sure, maybe this isn’t a bear he’s dealing with, but a can of bear mace would come in really handy right now.

"Nice wolf," he murmurs, bringing his right hand down to the holster of his knife as quickly as he dares. Stiles slides the blade from its sheathe, eyes never leaving the wolf's watery, golden ones. "I know we got off on the wrong foot, what with me looking like a tasty meal and all, but I'm going to slowly back away now, and you're not going to eat me. Okay?"

The moment the words leave his mouth, the wolf springs. The creek isn’t very wide, and the animal is on him before he even has a chance to finish his sentence. It bears him to the forest floor and scores bloody lines into the skin on his legs and hips with its claws before he gains enough leverage to push it away. Stiles’ instincts take over, and his body reacts. He knows fight or flight. He knows what it is to be afraid, to fear death. But the last time he really worried about his mortal soul was when the nogitsune claimed him as its host. Of course he’d been terrified of dying then, but the possession had been so gradual—his mind taken over so slowly and completely—that in the end he’d nearly resigned himself to his fate.

Stiles scrambles backwards and lifts his knife from its place at his hip, accidentally slicing into the thick material of his jacket in the process. The wolf snaps and snarls, lunging for his throat but catching his flailing leg instead, and the dayglow green handle of the KA-BAR flashes as it moves.

The attack is over in five seconds, maybe ten. There's a thin layer of blood on the bottom half of Stiles' blade, and a good bit more coating the bottom half of his leg. The wolf lopes off into the thin underbrush of the forest, leaving a trail of red droplets behind. One of its legs drags the ground. He must have hurt it pretty badly. Again, he feels a flash of pity for the animal. Then the adrenalin that had flooded his system begins to dissipate, and his leg gives a hideous throb.

Stiles drops the knife to the dirt and reaches a shaking hand into the plastic bag still attached to his other wrist. Now's as good a time as any to test whether or not his herbal anesthetic works. He uses his teeth in lieu of a mortar and pestle, quickly slathers a mouthful of bitter, wet plant paste onto the ragged puncture wounds that circle his leg above the ankle, and then promptly collapses onto his back, drawing quick, shallow breaths. It takes less than a minute for his mouth to go numb, and his leg, thankfully, follows another minute later.

He’s pretty sure the relief isn’t entirely due to his hastily prepared poultice. Stiles has only ever heard horror stories of people going into shock after being gruesomely injured, how it sapped their will to fight for survival. If he’s dying, he’d really rather not feel a thing. He gives shock an A for effort.

"Cn't beweef va jus happ'n," he slurs, squinting up at the weak sunlight filtering through the evergreens. Looks like the anesthetic has other effects if swallowed. As his breathing and erratic heart rate slow, Stiles spares a thought as to whether or not the plant matter he'd ingested was poisonous, but ends up shrugging, wincing when a sharp bit of something digs into his shoulder blade. If he's poisoned himself, it's a little late to be worrying about it now. His eyelids feel so heavy. All he wants to do is sleep. So. Probably poisoned himself, then.

"Wew shid."

The sun winks out.

\--------

When he comes to, it's to someone screaming his name directly into his ear. Stiles jolts to his feet so fast he's not even aware he's standing until he opens his eyes. Scott and Derek are sprinting toward him at mach wolf, both of them in beta form, eyes burning red and blue.

"Stiles!" Scotts yells again. He's at least a hundred yards away, but his voice thunders against Stiles’ eardrum, and Stiles claps his hands to the sides of his head and whines.

Whines like a... like a dog.

But that's crazy talk, because Stiles is absolutely, 100% human. The last werewolf he'd seen had been Derek that morning, and he was a beta, couldn't even give the Bite. He's just poisoned himself a bit, that's all. He's injured, for god's sake! Stiles yanks up the tattered leg of his jeans. His leg is torn to shre—

His leg is whole and unblemished, save for a few moles, a smattering of hair, and the remnants of the poultice he'd smeared over what had been a series of gaping wounds. Stiles glances at the knife on the ground, at the blood and bits of fur stuck to the blade. There was no way he had—it was only a wolf. _Canis lupus_.

"Stiles," Scott roars—or whispers, Stiles can't really tell—once he and Derek finally reach his side. "What happened?" The alpha gestures to the KA-BAR, then scents the air and freezes.

Derek does the same, but whatever he smells spurs him to action. He grips Stiles' upper arms with what Stiles realizes should be nearly crushing force, but he hardly feels it. It could be the poison. _God, please let it be the poison_ , he thinks.

"What did you do?" Derek growls, teeth flashing. Stiles blinks at him stupidly.

"There was a wolf," he begins, slowly, but that's all Derek apparently needs to hear. He’s off like a shot, leaping the small creek in a single bound and crashing through the underbrush on the other side of the bank.

“Stiles,” Scott says again, pulling Stiles’ attention back to him. “Are you alright?” He bends down and slides the tatters of Stiles’ jeans away from his wound, or where it should be, and frowns. “You said there was a wolf…” Scott trails, eyebrows furrowed in thought or disbelief.

“Yeah. One scrawny, mangy wolf who wanted a bit of bleu Stiles. Good thing I had my knife on me.”

“So it didn’t hurt you?”

Stiles puffs out his cheeks and blows a steady stream of air from between puckered lips as he shakes Scott’s questing fingers from his leg. “Guess not.”

But it had. Stiles knows he hadn’t hallucinated the very grievous injury because he still has the bitter aftertaste of the plant he’d pestilated with his teeth clinging to the back of his throat. He remembers the way the blood had steadily oozed from the wound, how immediate the relief had been once he’d finally pressed the masticated poultice to it. Only now the wound is gone, and Stiles has no way to explain that. No way that doesn’t mean his expulsion from Team Human, anyway, and he is so not ready to face even the possibility of that. Stiles is and always has been a fan of ignoring a problem until it eventually just goes away, although the look Scott’s giving him and the tingling feeling slowly crawling up his spine tell him that’s not going to be nearly good enough this time.

The tingling feeling is new, and not exactly pleasant. In fact, as the seconds tick by, it’s becoming increasingly _un_ pleasant. It’s less tingling now, and more like someone’s shoving a red-hot poker up his back and into his brain. It’s at this point Stiles begins screaming. He can’t stop, can’t even close his mouth to muffle the hideous sound pouring from it. His body jerks and curls itself into a heap on the forest floor while Scott looks on helplessly. Stiles is distantly aware of his best friend calling his name. The pain in his head flares, and suddenly the world is tinged red, and Stiles’ formerly shrill screams are now a bone-rattling roar. An actual roar. He’s amazed he can hear anything, the pain lancing through his entire body is so great. A million fire ants are marching through his veins, and when they reach his fingertips, he manages to tilt his head enough to look at them. Instead of watching fire pour from his hands, he stares in abject horror as thick, dark claws push through his nail beds.

 _No_ , he thinks dazedly. _It was only a wolf_.

His denial escapes him in the form of a warbling howl, and Scott immediately drops to his side and grabs his face in both hands. Stiles can’t bring himself to look at him, and clenches his eyelids firmly shut until Scott lets loose a roar of his own. And oh, that’s not fair. Once upon a time (up until a few minutes ago, even) Scott’s Alpha Roar™ elicited nothing more from him than a snicker and a little grudging respect, but now he feels it like a slap to the face. It snaps him back to himself, and he clamps his mouth shut on a whimper, staring into Scott’s red eyes.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott says, for maybe the tenth time since he came rushing onto the scene. Now there’s an edge of sadness to his voice, and Stiles knows exactly why. He doesn’t even have to bring his clawed hands up to his newly-furred face to confirm it, but he does anyway.

“What,” he begins, slurring around the fangs that protrude from his mouth. “What’s happening to me?”

“I think the wolf that attacked you wasn’t a normal wolf,” Scott begins, voice low, his eyes fading from crimson to their usual shade of dark brown. “And I think- I think you might have killed it. I think maybe it just died.”

Stiles wants to feel bad about killing another living being, but he can’t. Not when that being is a werewolf that’s just bitten him and turned him into a fellow creature of the night. This little jaunt into the woods had been one of the first tasks Deaton had assigned him as part of his training to become the McCall pack's emissary, and now he’s not even going to be able to handle the mountain ash still sitting in his pocket. And, _oh god_ , how is he going to tell his _dad?_ Then Scott’s words really sink in.

“Wait. Why do you think I killed it? It’s obviously an alpha, and I just… stabbed it a few times,” he finishes, brain working furiously to unscramble itself and make sense of what Scott’s telling him. “Several times. With a 9-inch knife. Oh, shit. Scott?” he pleads, carefully lowering his hands from his face and into the dirt. “What color are my eyes?”

To his credit, Scott doesn’t look away when he tells him.

“Red.”

\--------

Stiles still hasn’t managed to retract his claws or fangs by the time Derek returns from wherever he’s been. Stiles assumes he went in search of the wolf. His eyes must still be glowing red, too, because Derek looks away for a second when their gazes meet before staring defiantly back. Defiantly, like Stiles is challenging him. Which. No.

“I take it you found the wolf,” he says, managing to not sound like a complete dumbass thanks to his ridiculously large teeth.

“I found a girl,” Derek returns, mouth thinning into a familiar line.

“But a werewolf girl?” Stiles hedges. “And why aren’t you more surprised by this?” He motions to his mutton chops and orc teeth without gouging his eyes from their sockets, which is a feat considering his hands haven’t stopped shaking since he went into alpha mode half an hour ago. Derek continues to give him stone face.

Derek’s not as bulky as he was when he was an alpha, but his biceps still bulge attractively when he crosses his arms over his chest. No, they bulge _alarmingly_. Stiles is not thinking about sex at a time like this. He actually feels his heart stutter in his chest at the lie, and he didn’t even have to say anything out loud. Super.

“Yes, Stiles. I’m guessing the dead girl I found about a mile from here was a werewolf.”

Stiles cringes at Derek’s answer, and if he were in a better mood he would totally applaud his commitment to snark. As it stands, he’s freaking the fuck out and just barely holding off a panic attack.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Derek’s eyebrows fly into his hairline like a pair of frightened crows.

“Okay, yes, I did mean to hurt her. She attacked me!” Stiles points out, gesturing to his torn jeans, and then to the rest of himself generally. “What I didn’t mean to do was kill her. I didn’t mean to turn myself into a fucking _alpha werewolf_ , okay, so can you keep your judgement to yourself until I get over the fact that I’ve just joined the ranks of the supernatural?” His breath is coming in short, sharp gasps now, and he can feel himself break out into a nervous sweat. Stiles’ stomach rolls, and then he’s digging his clawed fingers into the dirt and panting as anxiety washes over him in a hot wave of nausea.

Scott drops to the ground beside him.

“It’s just a panic attack, Stiles,” he soothes, like he has any number of times in the past. He doesn’t touch him, though, only coaches him through the worst of it. Scott McCall isn’t Stiles’ best friend just because he’s so pretty. “You’re gonna get through this one like you got through all the other ones.”

“Yeah,” Stiles pants, giving in to the terror he feels, because what else can he do? “Yeah. I’m gonna be fine. It’ll pass.”

And it does. It’s over in a few mercifully short minutes. Stiles’ muscles feel like Jell-O even so. His body hasn’t gone into fight or flight mode in so long he’d almost forgotten what it was like. Of course, seeing as he has newly acquired super healing, the lactic acid drains from his muscles and is replaced by oxygen in the time it takes him to gain his feet. Which is kind of awesome.

Derek is still staring at him, frowning. Judging him for something that was beyond his control. What should he have done, let the wolf, the _girl_ , kill him instead? Doesn’t he know that if there was any way events could have played out differently, Stiles would have taken that? It’s not like he _asked_ for the Bite, not like he _wanted_ his entire fucking life upended in the time it took teeth to pierce his flesh. He's only twenty-two years old. He had  _plans_ , plans that are now well and truly fucking foiled, and this asshole wants to act like... like...

Stiles is suddenly, irrationally angry.

His vision goes red in the blink of an eye, and he flings himself, claws first, at the older man. Derek may only be a beta, but he’s been a wolf his entire life. He dodges Stiles’ attack easily, which only serves to further enrage Stiles. Scott’s on him before he can even turn, and they go down hard. Stiles’ face is in the dirt, and he’s so fucking angry all he can do is thrash uselessly and growl like a wild animal. It’s the sound that has him stilling, going limp and pliant underneath his surprisingly heavy friend, vision slowly clearing. He isn’t an animal. He doesn’t want to lose his shit like Scott had done after he’d been bitten. He doesn’t want _any_ of this.

“I know, buddy,” Scott says, “I know. But we’ll get you through this.”


End file.
